


Association

by t_verano



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13922112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/t_verano
Summary: Just a small slice of, well, sharing. Sort of.(And a wee bit longer than the challenge specs. For which I apologize, I could have removed the shopping, but I'm too tired to do the surgery with any finesse today. At least this attempt is a lot closer to 500 words as a max than my first failed attempt.)





	Association

It's Blair's favorite t-shirt: blue like Jim's eyes, perfectly soft and perfectly worn, and it feels like summer against his skin. Which is totally why he liberates it from Jim's dresser drawer every now and then and puts it on while Jim's out somewhere, leaves it on until Jim gets back; or, sometimes, puts it on while Jim's watching. The look in Jim's eyes whenever he sees Blair wearing that particular tee has nothing to do with it. 

Okay, it has pretty much _everything_ to do with it. 

Today, when he gets back from wrangling with the Saturday grocery shopping - dumping bags on the kitchen counter and mentally running down a checklist for the lunch he needs to start making - _Jim's_ wearing the tee. He comes down the stairs from the loft with a breezy-sounding, "What took you so long, Chief?" but his eyes are full of Saturday morning intentions, and Blair, quite possibly, completely forgets to answer.

It's not his fault. An unimportant corner of his mind (briefly) considers the newly purchased free-range eggs and organic milk and package of hormone-free steaks that ten seconds ago were on the fast track to getting shoved into the refrigerator, and shrugs. They can wait. Because Jim. 

Jim. Wearing an old pair of washed-out blue jeans that are tight enough to (more than) qualify as what a friend of his from Alabama calls "Lord have mercy because the Devil sure won't" jeans. And wearing that t-shirt.

The tee is even tighter than the jeans. It clings to every single one of the achingly well-defined muscles of Jim's chest and shoulders and upper arms with a possessiveness that Blair appreciates with every atom of his being. Appreciates, and really, really needs to emulate. Right. Now. 

Which explains why he suddenly finds himself at the foot of the stairs, his hands all over the tee - okay, no, all _under_ the tee, claiming the smooth, familiar skin it's clinging to for himself. 

Jim's chuckling. "What did you call this, again?" he says. "Association, Pavlovian conditioning, something like that?"

"Something like that," Blair echoes. He's got three fingers hooked inside the waistband of Jim's jeans now, and it won't take long for Jim's chuckle to turn into a barely audible, motivatingly needy sound of agreement, and the couch is almost close enough, closer than their bed, and...

...It's absolutely Blair's favorite t-shirt. At the moment it's lying in a shapeless heap on the coffee table, and he eases himself up on the couch, careful to not disturb Jim, and picks up the tee, pulls it on. 

It smells like just-washed laundry and just-showered Jim, and it slides across his skin with the comfortable ease of an old friend -

\- slides across his skin with the even more welcome tease of a lover, especially when Jim's hands make their way to his chest and pull him back in close.

"You trying to kill me here?" Jim says, his voice as warm as the summer sun, as teasing as his hands, and hey, it works both ways. Which Blair points out, right after Jim starts messing around with his nipple ring, the thin cotton fabric of the tee twisting beneath Jim's fingers, and... 

...and this is Saturday. They have all day. 

It's Blair's favorite t-shirt.


End file.
